11-29-2021, 11:34 PM
Wherewolf falls with the broken earth skittering and scattering around him. He falls into darkness without a word, without a startled exclamation or a worried breath. He knows what it is to fall, he knows the white starburst of his body striking the ground, knows the sound that it makes, heavy and dense, sometimes cracking, sometimes splitting open. Falling is about the only thing Wherewolf has ever been very good at, the only thing he ever practiced, and so he slices through the darkness with his wings tucked tight against his sides, forelegs curled to his chest.
There's no wind in this fall, though. There's no rush of air whistling in his ears or across his wings, and there's no light to shine on the ancient rock walls. Occasionally a bit of the ground he broke pings against his skin as it falls or floats alongside him, gaining an impossible amount of momentum for something so small traveling at roughly the same speed as he does himself.
Another bit of rock flicks sharply against his nose, startling him in the dark and the stallion jerks his head back sharply. The movement rocks him back slightly - though it makes no discernable difference - makes him flare his wings in surprise - just a touch as if there were a breeze to catch. The pressure of the Mountain slips between his wings and his skin like long black fingers in that moment of surprise and yanks the limbs open wide. That old panic blooms bright in his breast like a blood-red flower and Wherewolf bellows as the fingers burrow into his feathers and his flesh and pull until the joints are popping.
He's moving, now, but he isn't falling. Wordless but far from silent, the dappled stallion thrashes in that void, striking at Nothing with his hooves, tearing at Oblivion with his wicked fangs, his voice a wretched, ragged, scream that echoes up through the caverns. A familiar whine begins in his ears but he does not notice at first, too lost to that native horror, the wicked helplessness of being swung about by his wing.
Obscurity, however, does not swing him about like a fox kit with a scrap of deer hide. Instead, it stretches him to breaking, and as it does, the whine builds up in his head so slowly that he does not hear it at all until the blood is pouring from his ears again, from his nostrils and his mouth and his eyes, and then it grows even louder and Neverwhere's son screams not from panic but pain and his thrashing grows more frantic. He tries to reach his ears with his forelegs but can't reach with his wings pulled taut like a cross. Still, the whine grows louder. It becomes a howl of rage and betrayal, and rips seams into his skin; into his lungs and his heart until pieces of him spill out like a red river from his burst belly and the wings are torn from his back like a fly in the hands of a child. Bone and skin and gore and two broken wings find the Mountain's mysterious heart, but Wherewolf? He is not there.
He's standing in a gilded meadow, sea breeze rustling in the stiff bristles of his upright mane. He's standing whole and hale and unscarred, bathed in the eternal golden hour of the afterlife. There's a sense of peace in his bones like he's come home at last to the place he has sought a thousand times over and never could reach. The air smells of salt and heather and pinesap, and there's a smile on his lips that bears none of his usual cruelty. Even when Neverwhere steps out of a shiver in the air to find him, he cannot find his anger or his hatred, only looks at her with the bright curiosity that she killed in him years ago. It makes him look younger, that light-heartedness, and though in this glorious place he finds it hard to summon an emotion like Regret, he can see the mistakes he has made.
"I'm sorry," he says to his mother, his voice low and sincere, stretching his muzzle out in her favored greeting. Neverwhere, grown, here, not trapped in that weak child's body as she is every time she returns, tips her head to one side and is silent for what seems like an eternity, but, at last, she speaks.
"It's beautiful here. Peaceful." She turns away to gaze out at Wherewolf's Heaven. He waits, patiently. He can feel that she has more to say. When she' turns to him again, she's smiling a crooked little smile.
"The Fairies haven't taken your healing."
He's startled by her response, doesn't understand her meaning until a strange uneasiness fills his heart.
"You'll never reach Peace. We just wanted you to know."
Pain races through every piece of his errant soul. Somewhere, on the Mountain floor, the infinitesimal shreds of him knit themselves together again, and the golden glow of Happiness and Peace that alight so beautifully across his mother's chocolate skin grow dull and gray and are lost to Death's fog, and then, to screaming.
It's him. He's screaming.
And then he isn't. Then he is standing on the Mountainside again and the sun gives light to the carnage of his skin, to the swaths of livid scars and the dislocated wings that drag uselessly as snapped tendon and muscle reform. Every inch of him is the color of dried blood and rock dust. His mouth is torn into an ugly scowl and one canine tooth is fractured, its unhealed edge cutting fresh wounds into his lower lip. He glowers and he casts his green eyes about for the grey God, ready to raze the Mountain to the ground. Neverwhere's words ring in his ears.
If he cannot have Peace, he will have Revenge.
There's no wind in this fall, though. There's no rush of air whistling in his ears or across his wings, and there's no light to shine on the ancient rock walls. Occasionally a bit of the ground he broke pings against his skin as it falls or floats alongside him, gaining an impossible amount of momentum for something so small traveling at roughly the same speed as he does himself.
Another bit of rock flicks sharply against his nose, startling him in the dark and the stallion jerks his head back sharply. The movement rocks him back slightly - though it makes no discernable difference - makes him flare his wings in surprise - just a touch as if there were a breeze to catch. The pressure of the Mountain slips between his wings and his skin like long black fingers in that moment of surprise and yanks the limbs open wide. That old panic blooms bright in his breast like a blood-red flower and Wherewolf bellows as the fingers burrow into his feathers and his flesh and pull until the joints are popping.
He's moving, now, but he isn't falling. Wordless but far from silent, the dappled stallion thrashes in that void, striking at Nothing with his hooves, tearing at Oblivion with his wicked fangs, his voice a wretched, ragged, scream that echoes up through the caverns. A familiar whine begins in his ears but he does not notice at first, too lost to that native horror, the wicked helplessness of being swung about by his wing.
Obscurity, however, does not swing him about like a fox kit with a scrap of deer hide. Instead, it stretches him to breaking, and as it does, the whine builds up in his head so slowly that he does not hear it at all until the blood is pouring from his ears again, from his nostrils and his mouth and his eyes, and then it grows even louder and Neverwhere's son screams not from panic but pain and his thrashing grows more frantic. He tries to reach his ears with his forelegs but can't reach with his wings pulled taut like a cross. Still, the whine grows louder. It becomes a howl of rage and betrayal, and rips seams into his skin; into his lungs and his heart until pieces of him spill out like a red river from his burst belly and the wings are torn from his back like a fly in the hands of a child. Bone and skin and gore and two broken wings find the Mountain's mysterious heart, but Wherewolf? He is not there.
He's standing in a gilded meadow, sea breeze rustling in the stiff bristles of his upright mane. He's standing whole and hale and unscarred, bathed in the eternal golden hour of the afterlife. There's a sense of peace in his bones like he's come home at last to the place he has sought a thousand times over and never could reach. The air smells of salt and heather and pinesap, and there's a smile on his lips that bears none of his usual cruelty. Even when Neverwhere steps out of a shiver in the air to find him, he cannot find his anger or his hatred, only looks at her with the bright curiosity that she killed in him years ago. It makes him look younger, that light-heartedness, and though in this glorious place he finds it hard to summon an emotion like Regret, he can see the mistakes he has made.
"I'm sorry," he says to his mother, his voice low and sincere, stretching his muzzle out in her favored greeting. Neverwhere, grown, here, not trapped in that weak child's body as she is every time she returns, tips her head to one side and is silent for what seems like an eternity, but, at last, she speaks.
"It's beautiful here. Peaceful." She turns away to gaze out at Wherewolf's Heaven. He waits, patiently. He can feel that she has more to say. When she' turns to him again, she's smiling a crooked little smile.
"The Fairies haven't taken your healing."
He's startled by her response, doesn't understand her meaning until a strange uneasiness fills his heart.
"You'll never reach Peace. We just wanted you to know."
Pain races through every piece of his errant soul. Somewhere, on the Mountain floor, the infinitesimal shreds of him knit themselves together again, and the golden glow of Happiness and Peace that alight so beautifully across his mother's chocolate skin grow dull and gray and are lost to Death's fog, and then, to screaming.
It's him. He's screaming.
And then he isn't. Then he is standing on the Mountainside again and the sun gives light to the carnage of his skin, to the swaths of livid scars and the dislocated wings that drag uselessly as snapped tendon and muscle reform. Every inch of him is the color of dried blood and rock dust. His mouth is torn into an ugly scowl and one canine tooth is fractured, its unhealed edge cutting fresh wounds into his lower lip. He glowers and he casts his green eyes about for the grey God, ready to raze the Mountain to the ground. Neverwhere's words ring in his ears.
If he cannot have Peace, he will have Revenge.
Scramble:
[DUPLICATION]
[INVISIBILITY]
[carnivore]
0-space
[SHADOWS]
